Context
by Keltic Banshee
Summary: Life is always a matter of context


He always knew life is a matter of context. The same word, spoken at different times, can have entirely different effects, consequences and undertones. The same gesture, shared with different people, can be interpreted in an entirely different way, depending on the baggage and history each of them carries.

However, he had never considered that something like _this_ could also be a matter of context. Particularly not after... He swallows. Closes his eyes. He almost has to convince himself to think about it, and it takes a lot of effort simply to conjure the words in his mind. Not after what happened in the Brecon Beacons.

The rope coils around his left wrist, and his whole body tenses. Memories rush in, bringing with them panic and fear and cold sweat. His heart thumps in his ears. He struggles to breathe.

Think. He has to think. He focuses on his breathing, on slowing it down. Deep breaths. Air rushes into his lungs, and his heart seems to calm down a little. He can do this.

Delicate fingers feather over his hand, his wrist, his forearm. Human touch. Reassuring and calming and grounding. The panic starts to recede as he pushes it away. It's hard to fight irrational fear, to keep it at bay. But he _has_ to do this.

"Okay?" Tosh's quiet voice almost sound like a shout. He nods, eyes still shut, mind still struggling to keep his breath under control. Tosh taps his arm once, two, three times. As if waiting for something. As if waiting for _him_.

Of course.

"Yeah. I'm okay." His voice sounds shaky in his ears, and no doubt Tosh will notice that. Just as she noticed him recoiling when she placed a hand on his arm earlier. Just as she noticed what nobody else seems to. That ever since the cannibals almost killed him, Ianto Jones is struggling to cope with the idea of being held down again. Guns trained at his head, Weevil claws, mind-reading aliens, end of the world... All of that he can handle. A hand on his arm makes him back away. He'd rather not think how he might react to being captured again.

No matter how many times Tosh thanks him for what he did, and reminds him it was his actions that gave her a chance to escape, the feeling of helplessness, of being trapped and ready for the slaughter, remains.

"Open your eyes." A quiet, undemanding request, as the rope loops around his forearm, tightening around already tense muscles. "Ropework is meant to be admired."

He swallows, mouth suddenly dry, and forces himself to open his eyes. He focuses on Tosh, all soft lines and a calming smile, glasses discarded on the side table. Follows her hands as they pull at rope, crimson red contrasting with his pale skin in geometrical patterns. Slowly, pausing at every turn, Tosh brings the rope to his elbows and ties the tails in a neat knot.

It takes a beat to realise that the panic has been replaced by curiosity. About the knots Tosh is using. About the origin and composition of the rope - it feels like silk on his skin. About why Tosh, quiet Tosh of all people, convinced him that being tied up is not always a bad thing, and that ropes can be beautiful in the hands of someone one can trust. Tosh takes a step back and tilts her head, as if admiring her work.

"Told you the problem wasn't the rope." She gives him a cheery smile, and he has to smile back.

"This," he shakes his arm, the rope holding in place and rubbing gently as his muscles move, "hardly qualifies as tying somebody up."

"I never said anything about tying up." She tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. "I offered to remind you that everything, in the right context, can be interesting." She pauses for a second. "I would have thought that would be obvious, given... Jack." She stares at him for a second, before looking away, a hint of blush in her cheeks. "Sorry, didn't mean to..."

She pauses, eyes darting around the room, almost as if looking for a way out. It's one of those things about Tosh, how perceptive she is, and how she always seems to think she shouldn't notice things, she shouldn't intrude in other people's lives. He stands up, the stool he's been sitting on creaking, and takes a few steps towards her. He's given up trying to convince her it's just the rest of the world that is blind. A finger on her lips, and she stills, takes a deep breath and nods, almost to herself.

She smacks his hand away when he makes to reach for the knot. Slender, delicate fingers slowly untie the rope, carefully winding it up in a neat coil as it leaves his arm. The same delicate fingers place the rope in his hand, just as they did earlier, when he arrived. There is a moment of silence, of unvoiced questions and quiet answers, while he considers the first thing Tosh explained to him.

The rope is _his_.

Nobody can use it on him if he doesn't willingly give it away first.

He tries to swallow the knot in his throat as he slowly forces himself to return the rope to Tosh. She tries to hide her smile as she takes it and starts unrolling it again. He understands what Tosh is doing, how Tosh is forcing him to deal with something he wishes he could just bury and forget, even though he knows that _never_ works.

What unsettles him is how easily Tosh could see what he hadn't figured out himself yet. That what scared him about what happened in the Brecon Beacons was not so much the rope, the hood, the cleaver, but the lack of control. That the moment he realised he could fight back, he could do _something_, everything fell back into place, and he could breathe again. That what still haunts him is not so much being captured, but not being in control.

Hence Tosh's offer to help, if he dropped by her place. Hence Tosh's careful words, and many options for him to change his mind and go home when he finally turned up. Hence the almost-ritual passing of the rope, from him to Tosh so she can use it on him, from Tosh to him when she releases him.

Although, as usual, understanding is a very different thing to being able to handle it.

A single nail scratching down the length of his forearm brings him back to hear and now. Tosh arches an eyebrow, a smile playing on her lips.

"Again?" Her voice is soft, calming, grounding. Somehow this side of Tosh, of gentle, caring Tosh, doesn't come as much of a surprise – everybody knows it is the quiet ones that one has to watch out for. He nods, eyes closed, wondering. Whether it will work, whether Tosh is right and he'll eventually be able to keep a clear head and not panic at the first touch of rope, whether this is just another of those insane things that Torchwood throws his way. Tosh taps his arm, almost too soft to feel it, and he forces himself to open his eyes again.

"Yes, please." Slowly, reluctantly, almost as if moving against jelly, he brings up both arms, wrists together. Tosh's smiles widens. That's something, at least, Tosh smiling. She doesn't do that much these days. She places a hand on her chest and pushes him back to the stool. It creaks dangerously under him, and despite Tosh's assurances that it is a perfectly good and stable seat, he can't help feeling he'll end up on the floor sooner or later.

The rope coils around his left wrist, and his whole body tenses. Panic washes over him again, barely for a second. His heart is racing again, so is his breath, but it somehow feels _easier_, even as the rope moves around his other wrist, a neat knot tied between them. Tosh holds his eyes for a moment, a calculating look on her face as she plays with the tails of the rope.

"I'm okay." Still shaky, but not so much. The rope sneaks up his forearms, slowly, loops entwining with loops, neatly aligned and creating the effect of a single, continuous surface of rope. Not a knot until the rope reaches his elbows, when it's tied and tucked under the coils, the end effectively disappearing from view. He tries to pull his arms apart, but it holds firmly. "Sort of."

Tosh kneels in front of him, feet tucked under her, and looks up. A hand lands on his knee, and he tries to hold on to that shred of human contact. Slowly, what is left of the panic recedes, and he is left facing a certain fascination about the ropework, his brain trying to remember every move of Tosh's hands, to understand the weave of strands that keeps his arms together.

"Why?" Barely a whisper as Tosh moves closer and leans her head on his leg, dark eyes fixed on him, as if taking in every little expression, every single gesture, every shallow breath and every blink. It takes a moment for the word to sink in, and even longer for him to realise he's not entirely sure what Tosh is asking. He raises an eyebrow. "What makes you say you are okay?" Tosh gives him a smile, one of those bright, cheerful and rare smiles of hers.

"It's..." He pauses for a second, trying to capture the whirlwind of thoughts into words. "It's hard to explain." Tosh rolls her eyes, as if she had seen it coming. "It's... you." Now it's her turn to raise an eyebrow. "I know you. You care about those around you."

"And?" The smile still plays on Tosh's lips as she blows a strand of rebel hair away from her face. It's hard to reconcile this confident Tosh staring at him with the vulnerable woman who not so long ago hid from the world in his arms after one of the hardest days in her life. It's hard knowing that it won't be long before another even worse day replaces that, and then another, and one more after that. He pulls at the ropes again. They don't give.

"I know you'll untie me." It sounds a lot more certain than he is. He _knows_ Tosh will let him go, but that primal fear of not being able to free himself still lurks somewhere inside him, too close to the surface for comfort. A hand raises to his other thigh, fingers trace abstract patterns over his jeans, then jump to his arms and trace the outlines of the ropes.

"And?" He shakes his head, not sure what else he can add to that. It's hard to believe, to accept, that somehow this seems to be working, that even though he still is not comfortable with the idea of being held down, he's at least thinking clearly. Tosh looks up as a single finger trails all the way up his arm. Past his shoulder. Up his neck, barely there. Along his jaw. He shivers, and it has nothing to do with cold.

"All I have to do is ask." A whisper, because he doesn't have air for more, and he'd much rather not think about why.

And then it clicks. It's not just that Tosh would never hurt him or harm him in any way. It is not just that he trusts her – how could he not trust her, with the job they have? It is not just that she is safe and familiar and gentle and caring and so broken inside that it's hard to believe she can hold herself in one piece – surely she has a dark side, like they all do.

It is his decision. Being here. Allowing Tosh to do this. He can't free his hands. He couldn't even make a cup of tea or grab a glass of water right now. But somehow, he is still in control. He can stop it all. With one word.

Which probably wouldn't be the case if he got captured by cannibals again, but, then again, it is all a matter of context, of perspective. As long as he stays calm, and collected, and keeps is brain focused, he _can_ be in control, no matter what. Just like he did back then, when he stood up to them, and hit them when they weren't expecting it, and gave Tosh a fighting chance.

He catches himself smiling. Maybe that is what she's been trying to explain to him all along.

"Do you... do this often?" Tosh blushes just enough for it to be an answer as her hands work on the ropes, slowly undoing the bindings. "You seem to know a trick or two." She winds the rope into a neat bundle and puts it in his hands again. For a very long moment, he just sits there, elbows on his knees, hands playing with the tails of the rope, Tosh leaning against him.

"It... has its uses." She blushes a deeper shade of crimson. "As I said, it is all a matter of context. In the hands of an enemy, ropes can be restraints. In the hands of a friend, they can be a tool. In the hands of a lover..." She shakes her head and gives him a coy look that makes him wonder what tricks Tosh could pull out. She opens her mouth to say something else, but stops mid-breath when he passes the rope back to her.

"One more time?" His mouth is dry, and he's not entirely sure it's just the fear and panic taking over, or trying to. Tosh almost jumps back to her feet and slowly walks around him, as an artist would around a blank canvas or a fresh block of stone. He waits, not sure what he's after right now. When Tosh stops behind him, a shiver runs down his spine.

"Hands behind your back." Something in Tosh's voices demands obedience. No, not quite demands it, but the effect is the same – he's got his hands behind his back, fingers entwined, before he's actually had a chance to think this through. The rope sits on his wrists again, and his heart starts pounding. Tosh works slowly, meticulously, and he has to wonder how the ropework looks this time. It feels like the same binding – a bit looser, to allow for the position of his arms – but he can't really tell.

Tosh takes a step away, as if admiring her handiwork, before moving back in front of him and kneeling on the floor again. When she looks up, there is more than a hint of curiosity on her face. He takes a deep breath, trying to keep his heart under control, and pulls at the ropes. Just as before, they don't give. And this time, he doesn't even have a clue how they are tied. Not that it would be much help with his hands where they are.

"Okay?" He nods.

"I think I will be."


End file.
